Revolutionary Conflictions
by some random gal
Summary: As America stood at the battle field, aiming his musket at his soon-to-be-former brother, he though of the journey he took to get to the stage of war, and his thoughts upon it. Meant to be brotherly, but it can be romance if you like.


I wrote this for a project, and i rather liked it^^ So I thought i'd post it here. It took me a good month and three days to type^^. O Ihope you all like it. This is my frist Revo War fic. I love me angst

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><p>America found it ironic that the one time when it rained in his country, it would be on the day of his battle for independence. The drops of water pelted down on his hands holding his musket, making the weapon feel heavy in his hands. His dark blue war uniform soaked up the water, weighing it down on his body. Thunder roared just after the words left his mouth and America tried not to cringe at the loud sound. Now was not the time to have childish fears. Not during a war with his older brother, England.<p>

America hated war. He didn't understand why people had to go and start killing other people to get what they wanted. Not only do you hurt others, but you hurt yourselves too. He had seen the scars England harboured from the countless battles that he fought and America bore some himself, from his own wars within himself. England would hide his scars, but when faced with them, would tell a story about each mar and blemish with a kind of proud light in his eyes. America, though, would prefer to hide them, finding no pride in recounting about how people killed each other, whether the reasons were petty or not.

Now here he was in a war, at the front lines, still doing the very thing he hated doing, hurting people.

But it wasn't like he had any other choice. He pleaded to England so many times to let him go, but his caretaker just wouldn't budge. He had tried looking for any other alternative, anything but _war_, but his people were asking, crying, demanding for it, and soon he buckled under the will of his people, because he was America. He was shaped by his people and his people wanted him to go to war with his former caretaker.

England stood alone just across the battlefield, clad in his red military uniform, staring at America with wide green eyes filled with disbelief, confusion, hurt and anger and it made America cringe to see it directed at him and know he was the cause. It caused a great lump of guilt to form at the base of his throat and the fingers on the trigger of his musket to quiver.

England. His parent, his only caretaker, his brother, the only thing he ever knew in his life. It almost killed him to go at war with him. It was like going to war against his entire world. England was his entire world, feeding him, clothing him, and giving him love. England had always made America happy. America wanted to make him happy too. _Just stay with me always,_ England would always answer with a smile whenever America would ask how to make him happy. _As long as you stay with me always, I am happy._

England suddenly gritted his teeth in determination and gripped the musket, which America forgot he had been holding limply in his hands, tighter. Everything slowed down as England took a step, and another, and another. It soon occurred to America that England was running at him as time once again sped up. America, so deep into his musings, barely reacted in time to raise his own musket to block England's bayonet as it came up to stab him.

"_I WON'T ALLOW IT!"_

America distantly wondered if England actually anticipated him blocking his attack. He didn't like the thought that England had intended to hurt him, even though he was the one initiating this war against him. His musket was flung from his grasp through the air and landed in the mud with a dull thud, as America stared hard back at England's face.

England's face was streaked with mud and blood. His sandy blonde hair was plastered to his face, fringe dripping over his large eyebrows which were drawn into the deepest of frowns over his deep green eyes, which now stared at him with a fiery glare, a look America had never seen on his face before; annoyance and the occasional anger, but never this.

"Idiot!" England spat, his voice a little breathless and strained, as if he was forcing the words through. "You never go through anything until the end!" America heard his men prepare their guns, and he motioned a hand in panic, only to half regret his actions. _We're in war,_ America thought. _Get it together._ America ripped his eyes from his _former _caretaker's face and stared at the bayonet. Having accidently called his men to stop, he was now all alone. By the time his men fired, it will be too late. He tried to suppress his fear. _He's going to shoot me. He hates me and he's going to kill me. He's going to-_

The gun was lowered.

America made a small noise of confused surprise and looked up. His breath caught.

England's face had morphed into one of the most vulnerable looks he had ever seen. His lips quivered, his head slightly tilted as if trying to hide his expression. He's huge eyebrows were now drawn apart over deep green eyes that were glistening with hurt and barely contained tears. He's strained breathing took on a sobbing quality.

"…Of course, I can't shoot you." England said between sobbing breaths as he let a shaking half smile at his former charge. America could almost not bear to look. "I can't!" He tossed the musket to the side as his legs seemingly gave out and he collapsed onto the mud, gasping sobs escaping from the man despite the hand covering his mouth to stifle them. America stood frozen, torn between whether or not to go and help him up. It used to be so easy before. Back when England first cried in front of him, when he and France fought over who should take him in, all America had to do was put a hand on his shoulder, and he would smile, tears already disappearing from his eyes as they were replaced with joy. But now he couldn't touch him, because he was fighting him for 'Independence'. He couldn't help his enemy.

"…Why?" England choked out as he curled more into himself. "Dammit, why? It's not fair…!" America struggled to provide him an answer, because it was the last thing he could give him as his colony. England had given up. He was letting America, if reluctantly, go. The least America could do for him was at least give him an answer. Yet, as America thought hard, he was frustrated that he couldn't think of one. He thought of his people. He thought of the taxes which drove the people to the need of independence. He thought of all the rules England had imposed on him. He thought of England always leaving him by himself. Finally, he thought of the times England would always offer his hand to him when he was young. His hands were always so big and warm over his rough from his work compared to his own younger soft ones. Now that he thought back over it, there was always this difference between them in their lives, a difference that was bigger than the ocean that stood between them; the difference in their hands; rough and smooth, scarred and unblemished. England was out there being a country, an actual country being involved in the world, while America was stuck in his own home, doing nothing. But now America was ready. He was nurtured, he has grown, and he was ready to go out.

"You know why." America replied softly. But he wondered if England really did know. England either didn't hear him or couldn't answer over his jerky sobs. America looked down at England, noting how small he looked crouching in the mud, the rain seemingly making him smaller with each pelt. America never really let the height difference bother him, in fact, he welcomed it. _Grow up soon, America, _England would say before he would go back to his own home country. _Grow up and be a strong country_. So America grew up, to make him proud. But now, he realized, by growing up, he was just cutting short his time with his big brother. Now he was too big to be held, England too small to hold him.

"You used to be… so big." America said softly, gazing remorsefully at his ex-big brother, though England still didn't look up at him as another wail slipped past his hand. He walked over to where his musket lay and picked it up. He felt a need to keep it. Something like this couldn't just be dismissed. He took one more gaze at his ex-brother, broken and defeated on the ground.

"…Goodbye, England." _I wish I could've stayed with you longer, _America added in his head, before he turned sharply on his heel, signaled his men, and walked away from his safe haven and into the world.

Evaluation:

The purpose of this piece, as said, is to show that through conflict better things can happen. Conflict caused America to consider the need to become independent. If he didn't have this conflict, he might have never gone independent and would have never grown into the strong superpower nation that we all know and enjoy discussing about. England's conflict about shooting America prevented him from doing so, which stopped him from killing him. America's decision in keeping his musket is a representation of how he knows that he just can't move on from his previous life with England, that he is sorry for hurting him; maybe he might come to apologise to him.


End file.
